Identity Crisis: Yesteryear
by mak5258
Summary: Bits and pieces and scenes from before my story 'Identity Crisis' began.
1. Chapter 1: April 1995

_A/N: Hello, all-- here is the first of quite a few back-story type shorts from the Identity Crisis universe. With my computer in tech services again, it got me looking through my notebooks and I found these and finally got around to typing them out at the library, so I suppose there's a silver lining in this whole I-don't-have-my-laptop-right-now thing. Now I'm just praying that I get it back with everything intact (they were threatening the possibility of having to wipe it to get rid of the sneaky virus thing). Enough of my problems, though-- hope you enjoy these!_

* * *

The Chronicler of the League of Shadows was already wrinkled and blind, or at least mostly blind, when Clark met him. He was hunched and arthritic, so old that the number of his age didn't matter, but he moved quickly and efficiently, navigating the overflowing library from memory.

Clark had stumbled upon the library much the same way that he'd stumbled upon the Temple: almost literally. In the case of the Temple, he had been flying overhead, passing over Tibet on his way to Hong Kong, and become vaguely intrigued by the hidden place and the childhood fantasy it had contained; Ducard had taken him in after tentatively believing the horribly-lost traveler line, then had been made to do anything but regret it, as Clark was a quick study. In the case of the library, Clark had simply been wandering in the night, as, even with the regular use of kryptonite in the daytime; he was easily fully-rested after only a few hours of sleep and always left with a few extra hours for thought and exploration.

It had hardly taken any finesse to convince Yao, which was what the Chronicler called himself but not necessarily his name, to let Clark help him around the library. Ducard had taken a bit more convincing, having grand schemes for Clark's talents—he threw terms like 'Master of Assassins' around enough to make Clark uncomfortable—but, in the end, Clark's curiosity had won out. Hours of swordplay and pyrotechnics were paired down to create time for study under the Chronicler, and Clark's evenings, once more-or-less free (most of the others slept in the evenings), were devoted to reading the books and scrolls kept in the library, learning them as well as he could—the Chronicler frustrated easily, especially when Clark didn't know which text he was referring to, and almost none of them had titles.

Clark's evenings in the library quickly began to extend well into the night, far past the hour at which Yao retired to his tiny cot at the back of the library. The wealth of history and information in the library was addicting, but disturbing as well. The League not only tracked the histories of the Orient and Europe, but the rest of the Western World, sometimes tracking individual cities alarmingly closely. Singapore, Venice, Gotham, Vatican City, Paris, New Orleans. The amount of carefully collected and documented information, all handwritten in a variety of character languages, was overwhelming.

Quite suddenly, Clark realized he had been with the League for more than two months. Not only had he read almost half their library in that time, he had learned their 'way of the ninja,' their languages—spoken and written—and, almost unconsciously, created a niche for himself within the League. All without ever meaning to stay for more than a month, like any other stop on his tour of the world. He wondered idly if he had grown stagnant with the prolonged exposure to the tiny sample of kryptonite—fashioned into what looked like a small jade turtle figurine that he kept hidden in a little black pouch in his pocket—he kept with him always to keep him vulnerable.

"Kent," Ducard's voice startled Clark out of his thoughtful trance. Ducard was frowning down at him. "You must always be aware of your surroundings."

Clark nodded and tried not to look sheepish. He was usually better at being in the moment when he needed to be.

Ducard had him dress in full regalia—all black, armed, even his face swathed in cloth—and led him to one of the smaller practice rooms. A young man, brunette and dark brown eyes, stood at the center of the room, trying and failing to perform some form of meditation. He looked to be about Clark's age, maybe a few years younger—he could've been from Smallville, except Clark had never seen him before in his life.

The man's name, it came out, was Wayne. He was from Gotham, had left a man called Falconi's underworld behind to follow the criminal world through the eastern states, through Canada with a brief stint conning in Alaska. From Alaska, he'd gone to Tokyo, then smuggled in South Korea for awhile before finding the Temple.

"We will meditate," Ducard instructed, pointing Clark towards a second mat in the room and lighting a few more sticks of incense. The room was heavy with the scents and smoke of a hundred candles and diffusers. Instead of focusing on his surroundings—the smells, the sounds, the taste of the air, the heat—he focused inwards to his sense of self, all the while becoming more aware of the room around him.


	2. Chapter 2: September 1997

Parry. Parry. Thrust. Parry. Jab.

Watch his feet. Watch his shoulders. Watch his wrists.

Parry. Turn. Thrust. Thrust. Parry. Jab. Twist. Jab.

Clark dropped to the floor and grabbed Bruce's foot, then launched himself back to his feet, holding Bruce's foot at eye level a moment before tossing it back to the floor and using the moment before his opponent regained equilibrium to disarm and yank his wrist behind his back and twist it into a control hold.

Clark couldn't help but smirk a bit—it was rare indeed that one of them got the upper hand when they trained against each other. After two years at the Temple, they knew each other, knew their tells, their inclinations, preferred techniques. They made a good team when they paired up to 'fight' other trainees.

Leaning on the banister above, Ducard chuckled, clapping in his condescending way. Clark wondered how long they'd had an audience. It was alarming, the ability to be snuck-up on. Usually, his _slightly _better than average hearing made it incredibly difficult to surprise him, but after so long with the kryptonite turtle in his back pocket things were fading. His ears had been ringing for three days, his joints throbbing for twice as long.

The only one who had noticed was Bruce, and the charming bastard had pressed his advantage. Blunt, fast, _forceful_ attacks, ringing blades crashing, clashing. The noise alone had his head throbbing, and absorbing the force of the attack was the last thing his joints needed.

One thing for sure was that Yao would be waiting another day at least for the far rack of scrolls to be organized.

"Tell me why you lost, Bruce," Ducard said, making his way down the ladder to the floor where Clark had just levered Bruce to his feet.

"I didn't react fast enough and was disarmed."

"A confrontation doesn't end at the loss of a weapon."

"Well, it was the _beginning_ of the end of the confrontation, sir," Bruce said, smirking in Clark's direction. Ducard smirked himself, chuckling.

"Kent, tell him why he lost."

"Because he wasn't expecting a form of attack made without the sword."

"Correct," Ducard had lost any hint of the laughter. "You have yet to grasp the concept of merging techniques, Bruce. You expect your opponents to follow rules that only exist in your mind."

Bruce took the criticism silently, looking straightforward stoically. Clark remembered a similar lecture a few days into his own training. It was a good mark on Bruce that he didn't react to the patronizing words, as they'd both heard them before.

"Keep practicing," Ducard instructed, looking at Clark. "Break him of this ridiculous habit."

Clark nodded, feeling his neck throb in protest.

Bruce was frowning when Clark glanced over at him after Ducard had left. Clark handed the saber back, trying to smile reassuringly around the headache.

"With me, it was the violence. I was raised on a farm, had to leave on the day we killed the chickens," Clark smirked, rolling his shoulders.

"Do you have arthritis or something?" Bruce asked, dutifully raising his saber to a ready position.

"What?"

"Arthritis. But it wouldn't be arthritis, it's in your ears, too."

"Uh…"

"Do you have the flu? You're acting like you have the mother of all migraines and the joints of an eighty-year-old."

"I'm not _that_ bad," Clard frowned. It wasn't as though he was hobbling around, after all. He was just a bit sore.

"No, but it's close."

"Clark scowled and pressed the attack, ignoring the screaming protest from not only his eardrums but from every bone in his body. They had to stop a few minutes later due to a nosebleed that just wouldn't quit, sending Clark to the mostly-bare room that served as an infirmary at the Temple to have cotton shoved up his nose to staunch the blood.

-

It was merely a week later that Clark left the League of Shadows. He'd finished reading the texts on the very back shelf of the Chronicler's library and been horrified with what the new information had clarified. The League destroyed cities. They took history and civilization into their own hands, infiltrating society, destroying, _pruning_ it was called in the texts, cities, economies, communities as Ras al-Guhl saw fit.

It had been after midnight when Clark had finished his reading. Horrified, he'd packed away the kryptonite figurine in its little lead case, thrown his scant collection of belongings into the knapsack he'd arrived with, and stalked for the exit.

He had planned to simply leave and never look back. He hadn't planned to confront anybody or even alert them to his departure. However, Ducard was in the large chamber with the main door through which Clark had planned to exit. He and Bruce were doing the modified sort of yoga the members of the League ended every day with, relaxing muscles and mind for sleep.

"Leaving us, Mr. Kent?" Ducard asked when Clark's hand touched the door handle. "Sneaking out in the dead of night after you know all our secrets?"

"Abandoning an abomination after I realized the truth, the reality of said abominable organization," Clark responded, realizing he was clenching he teeth and willing himself to relax. Once upon a time, before the League, he'd have had more trouble controlling himself and his abilities, but he _had_ learned all of the League's secrets, and some were not so horrible as the most recent that had come to his attention.

"Leave us," Ducard instructed, shoulders tense. Bruce nodded dutifully and disappeared through the far arch, but they both knew he was still watching, listening. "An abomination, you say?" Ducard asked, taunted, switching to the antiquated, nearly dead, language in which those last scrolls had been written.

"The world is not your canvas, your playground. It is not for you and yours to decide who lives and who dies, which cities rise and which fall. Which prosper and which are destroyed. It's not your place to do the destroying."

"Somebody, an incorruptible third-party, needs to regulate civilization or the mistakes of a single society will bring them all down," Ducard hissed. Clark glared. He could feel the intangible power that was always within him swelling, could feel it all coming back, feel the last traces of the kryptonite taint ebbing away. For the first time since he'd arrived at the Temple, his eyes burned dryly, the precursor to heat vision. He clenched his teeth, forcibly controlling himself and wondering what Ducard would see.

"People must be allowed to learn from their mistakes, to be allowed to make mistakes from which they can recover and move on!"

"That process takes too long. The League has been in place for centuries, long before you or I were even alive. The League has spent those centuries studying cultures and cities, watching, interfering when necessary. The League has developed the _wisdom_ to see when _people_ need to be shocked, to be destroyed before they destroy themselves and bring down the rest of the world. The League has been around to serve justice to the faltering and build them back up stronger, with the righteous at the core."

"Maybe you should spend less time on your mountain-top—secluded places only contain the minimum of wisdom, and usually only in the movies," Clark said, the foreign words sounding clipped from his mouth. There was no translation for 'movies' in the old tongue, but he didn't care about substituting in English. He didn't care which language they argued in.

"Where is this wisdom, then? A farm?" Ducard mocked. Clark clenched his fists, keeping himself from destroying the ornate door behind him or one of the support pillars nearby.

"In the world," he hissed, then shouted, "If you plan to make a place '_better_' you sure as hell better understand a bit of it first."

"You have seen all the documents," Ducard raged. "All the scrolls and books, all the careful notes. _We understand these places better than you, better than _anyone_, could hope to_!"

"No," Clark frowned, willing himself calm. "No, you don't understand them. You just have the raw facts, the surface material. You have no right to administer what you call justice, and certainly not by the means you choose. You are just as corruptible as _any_body else."

Ducard fumed, striding forward, looking as though he was about to explode. "You could've led the League. Are you saying _you_ are corruptible?"

"I will have no part in this."

Something in Clark's posture must've given Ducard pause, because he stopped advancing. His expression was still furious, but he seemed unable to rage further. Clark gave a mocking half bow.

"I thank you for what you've taught me. I hope we never meet again."

Then he left, slamming the door so hard that the entire building seemed to shake at his departure.

Bruce remained at the Temple for another two years, training with Ducard instead of Clark. Ducard never spoke of Clark after he was gone, and Bruce didn't dare bring him up, didn't dare read more than the bare minimum of the scrolls from the Chronicler's library in the event that he would provoke Ducard's wrath.

When he was asked to execute a man, Bruce finally left. He paid his debts, rescuing Ducard from the flaming Temple and death over the side of the cliff, but he, like Clark, did not look back after he'd finished with the League of Shadows. And, like Clark, he had the beginnings of a purpose growing in his mind when he left Tibet.


	3. Chapter 3: April 1998

Clark sat at his desk, feeling for the first time as though he actually deserved a desk of his own in the infamous _Daily Planet_ bullpen. Infamous for him, anyway—his high school English teacher had interned a summer at the _Planet_ and been properly impressed; his senior year had been full of stories of the bullpen, it had become a goal to someday work there, something to aim for through the tragedy that had been his life that year.

It was the afternoon after his first solo article had been published, a week into his career on the City beat. It wasn't much, a sidebar for page three, a human-interest piece. It was only special because it was his first without a shared byline with Lois Lane. According to most of the bullpen and the editor, it was something special to even secure a few inches on page three his first week.

Clark was used to the front page, though. An under-the-fold, 300 words with Lane on the dropping crime rate after the arrival of the being commonly known as Superman merely a week ago. His various articles for other papers when he was freelancing around the world. He did good work, he knew—he just had to _prove_ it to _this_ editor at _this_ paper.


	4. Chapter 4: May 1998

"Oh, good, you're here," Kent started, earning Lois' best early-morning, pre-coffee glare. Whatever he'd been planning to ask died on his lips with an uncomfortable stutter.

Lois continued on past his desk to her own, just one cubicle past his and kitty-corner. She put down her jacket and briefcase, and made a beeline for the coffee cart, Kent trailing in her wake.

"For future reference, Kent," Lois said, a bit harshly—he stood just behind her, hanging onto her every word in that puppy dog way of his. "Don't even _think_ of trying to talk to me before I've had coffee." She sealed the sentence by savoring a sip of the _Planet_'s bitter black brew.

"Oh, gee; sorry, Miss Lane. I'll try to remember that for next time," he stammered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose nervously and fidgeting while she gulped down the rest of her coffee, refilled her mug, then finally made her way back to her desk and turned on her computer.

It had just finished booting up with Kent cleared his throat nervously behind her. She smirked, smothered the smirk, fixed a patiently annoyed mask on her face, and turned to look at him.

The next day when Lois entered the bullpen, there was a steaming cup of coffee on her desk. Kent had his back to her, typing something out on his computer—he got the old, slightly beat-up keyboard after he'd ruined two new ones by spilling his coffee on them—but she knew he'd been the one to put the mug on her desk. How long it had been there or how it was still steaming remained a mystery, just like how Kent _always_ beat her into the bullpen, every single morning, left her wondering for months to come.


	5. Chapter 5: July 1999

Clark hated mingling. Period, space, space; possibly exclamation point. It was simply one of those things that he really didn't like to do. He hated making bad impression after bad impression, and stuttering his way through conversations in which he'd otherwise love to take part. But Bruce kept throwing fancy cocktail parties, and kept inviting Clark. And Clark kept accepting the invitation to keep an eye on the guests of interest to the host.

He even made himself inconspicuous by bringing a blonde bombshell (whom he'd met at a bar the night before for the sole purpose of bringing her to Bruce's party) or the like for his date, letting people assume that Bruce had invited _her_ and she'd dragged him along because he was easily ditched at the end of the night if Bruce took an interest.

On this particular night, however, he was escorting none other that Rachel Dawes. She found him amusing and trusted him because he was one of those honest reporters from Metropolis. Sure, she thought he was a bit of a geek, but she also knew that he was one of Bruce's best friends, a friend he'd met in the time that he'd been gone from Gotham, declared dead. He was fairly certain she liked to think that they had met in Kansas or some other pleasant place, though she was aware that they'd both 'trained' in Tibet.

"I don't usually come to Bruce's parties," Rachel admitted after they'd danced a few songs and were standing off to the side with their punch glasses. They were very near a large ice statue of a human-sized faerie, huge wings rising behind her back. It was very elegant, but very nude—the Clark Kent of the _Daily Planet_ bullpen would've been blushing scarlet at the sight of it.

"Why not?" Clark reclined against the nearest wall comfortably, savoring the chance to get a read on the woman Bruce was very nearly in love with.

"They're so much his… _public persona_," she said the last words in a whisper. "I just can't stand them. The people, the dancing—it's all so _fake_."

"I'm inclined to agree," Clark chuckled, looking across the grand ballroom to see Bruce chuckling in that devastatingly annoying way he did in public when told a joke he was supposed to think was funny. The man who had told the joke looked pleased with himself, and the women in short cocktail dresses standing with them laughed too loudly, clearly indicating that they hadn't gotten the joke.

"It's infuriating," Rachel ground out, eyes directed at Bruce as well.

"It's the way his life has to be if he wants to make a difference," Clark said. Rachel gave him one of those searching looks he was getting from Lois all the time.

"_Why_?" Rachel burst out suddenly, setting her empty punch glass on the nearest flat surface and glaring at him. "_Why_ does he have to do it? Why can't somebody _else_ do it?"

Clark glanced across the room at Bruce—he had noticed the turn in conversation between his two closest friends but his guests were arriving and he was the ringmaster.

"Superman," Rachel was saying, snatching Clark's attention immediately. "Why can't Superman do it? I mean, he's single-handedly saving the rest of the world, isn't he? Why not just pay a little closer attention to Gotham instead of Metropolis? It's not like Metropolis is a hotbed of crime and crime lords. It's people aren't living in fear, starving."

"Come now, Rachel; you're going to throw our dear friend into a depression," Bruce said, appearing at her side momentarily before moving away to another neglected group of over-dressed rich people.

Rachel blinked, then turned to gape at Clark. He gulped down the rest of his punch without making eye contact.

"What the hell kind of place in Tibet did you meet at?"

Clark opened his mouth to respond, but none other than Lois Lane appeared a few feet in front of him in a floor-length emerald evening gown.

_Funny how all my weaknesses come in green_, Clark thought before he realized that Lois was looking from him to Rachel and back. It was then that he noticed how intimate they must look, standing together drinking beneath an ice sculpture. They were leaning close together to have their intense, whispered conversation.

"Clark," Lois finally said, taking a few precise steps and closing the distance between them.

"Lois," Clark said with more surprise than he'd meant. "What are you doing here?"

"What am _I_ doing here?" she put a hand on her hip and tilted her head, raising an eyebrow at him. "_I'm_ working. Remember? Fricking Cat Grant has fricking pink eye, so we're drawing straws for who's covering her events. I lost. What are _you_ doing here? It's supposed to be our night off."

"Oh, well, Rachel and I—" he started, but Lois cut him off.

"Rachel…?" she asked, looking across at Rachel as if for an introduction, managing to be curious and condescending in the same expression.

"Rachel Dawes," Rachel said, holding out her hand, managing to finally snap out of her stupor from Bruce's revelation in passing. "Gotham ADA."

"Lois Lane, _Daily Planet_," Lois said easily, shaking the offered hand. Clark was glancing between them worriedly.

"Miss Lane," Rachel said, looking at Clark with an odd glint in her eye that Clark _knew_ he should be apprehensive about. "Would you mind if I took Clark aside for a moment?"

"Not at all," Lois said, backing off a little even though the expression on her face clearly read that she was more than a bit peeved by the sudden exclusion.

"'Scuse us," Rachel said, taking Clark by the hand and dragging him off to another corner. "You're _Superman_?" she whispered.

"Yes," Clark whispered back, letting his voice drop down to its natural register. Rachel blinked at him.

"Seriously, where the hell did you meet Bruce?"

"Tibet. In a converted temple full of ninjas."

"Ninjas."

"Yes. In Tibet."

"Ninjas."

"Where did you think he learned the crazy karate, hang-gliding-in-the-inner-city stuff?"

"Ninjas?"

"Yes."

"So what were _you_ doing there?"

"The same thing he was."

"You're a ninja?"

"Technically?" he shrugged," Yes."

"Superman the ninja. There's something nobody expected."

"I wasn't Superman then."

"What do you mean?"

"Superman is a public persona, just like Batman is. I've been Clark Kent for a lot longer. My sister had died, my dad had died, I'd had an entire extra terrestrial civilization's history and technology downloaded into my head; I needed a vacation," Clark quirked a smile at her. "I had my journalism degree, so I was traveling the world in my own unique way, writing for the papers and journals I came across. I ended up in Tibet with a bunch of ninjas. It wasn't exactly a place you were allowed to leave after you'd been allowed through the door."

"You had an entire alien civilization's history and technology _downloaded_ into your brain? Do you come complete with a USB port?"

"No," he shifted, holding back a chuckle. "Not actually _downloaded_. I just meant I had all the information of Krypton given to me. I can learn in super-speed, too, so… yeah."

"And by all the information of Krypton you mean…?"

"Everything the average Kryptonian at the time the planet was destroyed would have had access to, displayed and taught via hologram."

"Sounds boring."

"Hence the ninja temple shortly afterward."

"So you, what, broke out of the ninja temple after you decided you were done?" Rachel asked, circling back around to their earlier topic.

"Had my say with the ring-leader, then, quite literally, took off."

"How did Bruce get out?"

"I don't know. I've never asked," he lied; it was Bruce's story to tell. He'd given his friend permission to tell Rachel he was Superman if he wanted to, when the time was right, hence the random walk-by exposition. But he'd spent enough time around Rachel and heard enough stories about her to know that he could trust her with his secret if it would make Bruce's complicated life a little easier, particularly socially.

"Your friend is glaring at me," Rachel said, switching gears before Clark realized she had been glancing over his shoulder throughout the short, whispered conversation.

"Lois?"

"Yeah. Holding a glass of punch and _seriously_ glaring," Rachel glanced at him, smirking slightly. "Is she _jealous_?"

Clark shifted in what those of the _Daily Planet_ bullpen would recognize as a nervous shuffle completely expectable from him, getting Lois into his peripheral vision for a moment. She was indeed glaring something fierce at Rachel over the top of her glass.

"Seems to be."

"She so fervently claims to be just your press contact, though. Sometimes even denies that."

"She is," Clark chuckled. "But she's also my partner at the _Planet_."

"She doesn't know who you are?"

"Nope."

"Why not? I thought, of all people—"

"I haven't found the right time or place to tell her."

"You should," Rachel smirked, sipping her second drink she'd snatched off the tray as she dragged Clark into the corner.

"I know," he sighed, hating to actually converse on the subject so often on his mind. Rachel seemed to follow his thoughts well enough, giving him an odd look and having another sip of her drink.

"So she's a friend, but just with your office persona," she nodded, then smirked. Clark narrowed his eyes at her.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to enjoy this party a lot more that I thought I was."


	6. Chapter 6: December 1999

Alfred walked in with the breakfast tray and nearly dropped it when he saw Bruce swing a crowbar at a man in a cheap suit sitting in Bruce's chair in front of his computer console without flinching. To the butler's surprise, the crowbar and not the man bent with impact.

Bruce swung, again and again, but the man didn't flinch or react. His suit was a bit pulverized, but that was nothing compared to the crowbar; the thing was, in a word, mangled.

"Finished?" a calm, deep voice asked, and the man's head turned to the side. Alfred recognized Clark Kent and, with the sense that remained to him, set the tray on a nearby table to avoid dropping it. Knowing that Kent spent a good deal of his free time flying around the world in primary colors, seeing his extra terrestrial-ness confirmed, especially without the suit, was more than slightly startling.

Kent adjusted his glasses and took the crowbar from Bruce. Bruce collapsed into the chair Kent had vacated. For one nervous moment, Alfred was sure Kent was going to reciprocate the blows he'd taken with a few of his own, but he didn't. Instead, he calmly, almost absent-mindedly, reshaped the iron rod and set it on the desk next to the keyboard.

"Thanks," Bruce said roughly, drawing a nonchalant smile from his friend.

"Hey, whatever works," Kent chuckled. "Some days, I need you around to talk some hard truth into me; some days you need me around so that you can beat the crap out of a crowbar."

Bruce inhaled deeply through his nose, putting his elbows on the console and burying his face in his hands. Clark put a hand on his back for a moment before turning and leaving the room, stepping past Alfred on the way out. Alfred followed the tall reporter out.

"What was that in there?" Alfred asked bluntly, knowing Kent well enough to know that there was no use circling the subject.

"That was Bruce taking out his frustrations on somebody that can take it," Kent said sadly, adjusting his tie again. "It's been a week since the funeral."

Alfred nodded, then looked up at Kent again, more seriously than before; "I burned the note she left."

"That was probably the right thing to do," Kent agreed after a moment. Alfred nodded mostly to himself, but glad that Kent shared his opinion—not that the action could be reversed.

"It just doesn't seem that anything is getting better. With Harvey Dent and Rachel both gone—and I'm not just talking about their shared idealism and public position. The evidence of the personal impact is right there in the other room."

"Gotham isn't ready for a White Knight. It desperately wants one, it _needs_ one, but a White Knight can't do what the city needs right now. Right now they need their Dark Knight, no matter how much they hate him and resist."

Alfred nodded sagely but didn't say anything.


	7. Chapter 7: June 2000

The one thing that registered for Jimmy in his drug-induced haze was that Clark had said that blindfolds were a good thing, and that he was currently unable to open his eyes because the blindfold was tied so tightly.

Clark had entered the bullpen not exactly green, just out of place. He'd freelanced around the world before settling in Metropolis; he was only partnered with Lois until he got the hang of the city, even if everybody in the bullpen—expect, perhaps, Perry—thought he'd get killed if Lane let him out of her sight.

Luckily, Lois had taken him under her wing in a very out-of-character protective display, and that had been that.

Jimmy and Clark, as the resident geeks _and_ the only two people Lois could be bothered to eat lunch with, had been fast friends. Jimmy had found somebody fractionally cooler than him to get advice from without feeling like an idiot. Said advice was usually given in the form of unassuming tales of small towns on different continents that nobody had heard of.

"The thing is, they had us blindfolded," Clark had said, eyes sparkling behind thick lenses with the energy of his story.

"So?"

"So why bother blindfolding us if they're going to kill us later?"

Jimmy had always suspected that if anybody other than him were to actually _listen_ to Clark's stories, Clark would be much more popular—stutter or not. Hell, Jimmy would be his uncle's left nut that the stutter had been acquired on some grand adventure in Kenya after an epic but traumatic experience.

Jimmy was jerked back to the present when a bucket of water was dumped over his head and the blindfold was pulled away. He was in a bare room that could've been in any building in Metropolis—the moist air suggested they were in an ill-kept basement. He was strapped to a chair with his arms wrapped around the back and his ankles tied to the legs.

Whatever drugs they'd pumped into him when they'd snatched him were still at work—his mind wouldn't focus on anything and neither would his eyes. Colors and faces swam in his vision, making him dizzy, nauseous.

And he'd been such a good boy, always saying 'no' to drugs. He'd been too busy earning spending money by working part-time as a go-fer at the _Planet_, and delivering papers in his neighborhood to actually spend his spending money, of course, let alone on drugs.

"James Olson," an ugly face with big lips floating on a blurry gray-blue said. Jimmy wondered how they knew his name.

Of course, he also wondered if they had access to Twinkies and whether or not they'd share.

"Jimmy," he corrected, though he sounded unsteady even to his own ears.

"Sorry; Jimmy Olson," the ugly face on gray amended. Jimmy tried to nod, only managing to increase the vertigo. His stomach heaved without his say-so, and the partially-digested remains of his lunch splattered onto the gray blob-man.

Blob-man didn't look pleased.

The simple jarring force and suddenness of what happened next would've caused him to up-chuck again if his stomach hadn't been empty.

Fists rained down on his face and shoulders. Eventually, the force of the blows knocked him and the chair he was attached to onto the floor, making it easier for them to kick him.

What really got him, as he lay there with nothing to do but bleed and take it, was that he didn't even have the slightest clue who they were or why they hated him enough to sent a death threat, stalk him, arrange his kidnapping, then waste 'valuable' drugs on him to dope him out.

When he came to again, he had an odd view of the room, and his vision was only _just _beginning to return to normal. When Lois and Clark entered, Clark his usual step behind Lois even though they were obviously a unit, he could _see_ them, even if the room, swarming as it was with uniformed police officers and a few people who could only be EMTs rushing at him, spun around them a bit.

Lois' presence filled up the entire room. Her eyes were blazing, her shoulders were set, and she began verbally abusing the first foe she spotted despite the fact that the man was already in handcuffs.

It was Clark that Jimmy watched, though.

Clark, usually hunched, uncomfortable in his skin, trying to be small and unnoticeable, was standing tall and broad, adding to Lois' intimidation factor. His eyes swept the room, taking in _everything_.

It was the first time Jimmy ever noticed the sheer mass of his mild friend; the only time said friend ever seemed to possess not only the ability but the initiative to _use_ that mass.

When Jimmy was able to open his eyes again, he was in a hospital bed with an IV in his arm. Clark and Lois were in the guest chairs, Lois scrunched up into a ball with her head on Clark's shoulder. Clark smiled hugely but spoke very softly, "H-hey, Jim. How're you feeling? You had us worried for a while, there."


	8. Chapter 8: December 2001

Lois made her way down the hall and through the unremarkable door to the stairs to the roof access. She'd finally managed to slip away from the _Planet_'s overcrowded Christmas party in the bullpen with her cigarettes and lighter without Clark diverting her. Her pride at having made it as far without detection as she had waned when she saw him standing at the top of the stairs, lounging with one arm up against the door jamb; she half expected to see him with a cigarette of his own.

He looked very noir, standing up in the doorway. He wore the dark tuxedo that almost fit him, complete with bow tie, cummerbund and white shirt without coffee stains, and the black fedora he wore every day to work. He was just standing there looking out at the Metropolis nightscape soaked with the downpour Lois had forgotten about when she'd begun the escape-to-smoke maneuver.

"Why, Mr. Kent, you're looking very noir tonight," she said, making her way up the stairs to join him in the doorway, looking out at the night. They were protected from the rain by the slight overhang above the door. The only light came from the rotating globe on the roof above. It was very film noir indeed.

"Yesiree, sweethart," Clark said, turning to grin at her and affecting a Chicago accent. He looked as though he'd stepped right out of a black-and-white crime film from the 1920s. Lois couldn't help but smile. She lit a cigarette and put it to her lips, watching as Clark frowned at her, but, unusually, he smiled when she exhaled and they were ringed with a lingering haze. "I' was a dark an' stormy nigh' and she was beau'iful. Beau'iful and dangrous. She foun' me in da stairwell, watchin' da rain an' da moon; i' had been a quie' nigh' fer crime before she foun' me, came up to me innoccen'-like. A silen' killer."

"Are you suggesting I could kill you with my bare hands, Clark?" Lois asked, putting a hand to her chest and looking up at him through her eyelashes. "Because it's _so_ nice to have my talents appreciated every now and again…"

"Actually, I was referring to the cigarette in your hand," Clark smirked, nodding to the cancer-stick propped between her first two fingers.

"They should get you to do ads," Lois chuckled, dutifully snuffing it out with the toe of her strappy high-heeled shoe. He wasn't the only one who looked as though he'd stepped out of a classic film—she wore a long plum-colored cocktail dress with a swooping neckline and no back, it was elegant in its own, flirtatious, way, paired with her mother's gold necklace-earrings combination and her hair pulled back into a more elegant than flirtatious French twist. With him in the bright red bow tie and cummerbund, they hardly matched, but they weren't mismatched, either. She thought their outfits made a nice metaphor for the way they fit together as people, but she'd never admit to thinking that much about Clark Kent, not even to the man himself.

"Nah, I'm too gangly for television," Clark said, still smirking, turning to look out at the cityscape again.

"Hardly. All the big movie stars are tall. You've got the face for it, if you'd just ditch the glasses…"

"I like my glasses."

"But you have such pretty eyes!"

"I could never wear contacts. You know you have to touch your _eyes _to put those things in?" he shuddered dramatically. "No, thank you."

"Ah, my dear bumbling hayseed of a partner, too chicken to come into the twentieth century."

"I _like_ my glasses."

"If you say so," Lois replied in her patient, you'll-come-over-to-my-side-eventually tone. It had been their continuing argument since the first month of their partnership and neither side had yet shown signs of backing down.

"An' now, sweethart, whaddya say you an' me go on downstairs and show dem guys how ta dance?"

Laughing despite herself, Lois let him lead her back down the stairs to the elevator, then the bullpen, where he did indeed pull her out onto the dance floor. While he stepped on her toes more than a few times, he wasn't a half-bad dancer, which she'd been partially aware of before that night. The bruises on her feet faded, but his use of 'sweetheart' in casual conversation didn't, and Lois was surprised to realize she didn't mind.


	9. Chapter 9: October 2002

The Sparrow was Clark's favorite bar, but, Lois realized, she had no idea why. They had good beer on tap, but Clark never ordered the beer. The bartender—a voluptuous woman who flirted shamelessly with any man over six foot—was nice enough if one could get her to stop flirting long enough to have a conversation, but Clark tended to avoid her if at all possible. Maybe it was the location—only a few blocks from the international airport and its constant flow of people and taxis—but Lois didn't see how that would make Clark favor the Sparrow above all other bars in Metropolis.

_Maybe it was the lack of a parking lot_, Lois thought to herself, smirking. _It forces most of the drunks to hail cabs—all but the very early ones and the very stubborn ones_.

Lois was one of the stubborn ones and had claimed a curb spot for herself, jamming the meter full of quarters before she'd gone inside.

It was an average bar, really. Smallish, a bar at the back with alcohol behind the counter and stools on the other side. There was a broken karaoke machine in one corner—the radio was simply always left running for background noise. There were booths along the left wall, and tables through the rest of the room, a wall of windows on the right wall with a view of the street. There was a menu and a day-shift cook; Lois would never admit it to Clark, but she favored the Sparrow's mozzarella sticks over most other restaurants'.

"So, where's your friend?" the bartender asked, cleaning the counter with a grayed rag and looking as if she'd stepped out of any Law & Order episode ever set in a bar.

"What?" Lois raised an eyebrow and waited while the woman on the other side of the bar refilled her shot glass.

"The tall, quiet one you always come in with. You've been here for hours and there's no sign of him."

"He's out of town."

The bartender wisely moved down the counter at the look Lois gave her, refilling the only other patron's glass from the same bottle Lois had had her shot. The glare wasn't enough to keep the man at the other end of the bar away, though. After a last suave smile at the bartender, he stood and walked over to Lois, taking the stool next to her.

Lois looked him over. He was tall, probably just meeting the bartender's six foot flirt mark, with smooth brown hair and bright blue eyes. He wore a nice suit, brown with a teal tie that set off his eyes. It made Lois' gut hurt a little to look at him; he reminded her of Clark just enough that she almost wanted to laugh. She'd gone to the Sparrow in the insane hope that she'd find him, even though he'd quit the _Planet_ and the city a full week previously.

"Hi," the better dressed version of Clark said, sending her the same suave smile he'd used on the bartender. "I'm Richard White."

* * *

What she'd meant to be a one night stand had turned into a five-year relationship, a three-year prolonged engagement. Perry had assigned Richard to be her watchdog while she globe-trotted for almost six months in search of Superman and/or Clark Kent. She asked after both everywhere she went, half expecting to run into Clark at an airport or something, but it hadn't happened.


	10. Chapter 10: November 2002

After waking from an inconsequential dream in which a friendly dragon taught her how to speak Italian while making grilled cheese sandwiches, Lois discovered she was still stuffed into one of the poorly padded seats at the airport, using her jacket wrapped around her purse as a pillow and wished she was back with the dragon trying to get her to say 'fettuccini' around a mouthful of sandwich. The dream was better than reality. In the dream, Clark had the potential to pop up and criticize her language skills; in reality, the only one likely to do that was her travel-buddy Richard White, and that just wasn't the same.

Richard was a whole new field of awkward. They'd met at the Sparrow, commiserated for an hour as strangers who meet in bars are wont to do—she'd just lost her writing partner, best friend, with no warning, and he'd just ended a two year relationship with a woman named Andrea—and ended up at his hotel. The next morning, she'd walked into the bullpen to see him in Perry's office, laughing and going over paperwork.

In an attempt to avoid the man she had soon discovered to be Perry's nephew, Lois had spent the next three days pounding pavement away from the bullpen, but it could only last so long. Richard had flirted the entire afternoon she'd spent at her desk, sitting in Clark's empty space. It took a half an hour to write up her travel requests and two minutes to come up with a 'Searching for Superman' campaign to feed Perry. It took Perry less than a minute to attach his nephew to her for the duration of her travels no matter Lois' protests.

It wasn't that she didn't like Richard White. He was very likeable. He was charming and polite, had a nice smile. He was kind, kept her tickets and paperwork in order while she stressed out about Clark and Superman, and spoke enough languages for them to navigate international airports with less than the expected number of bumps. He kept her sane, but she hated that she had to rely on him.

"Lois, you awake?" the man in her thoughts asked, appearing in her peripheral.

"Yes," she grunted, levering herself upright.

"Good. We have a spot out on the next flight. We have to get moving to the gate, though; it's _literally_ the next one out."

"Damn," Lois put her jacket on and gathered her carry-on and laptop case. "No chance for coffee?"

"Not unless you want to wait for a different flight."

Grumbling, Lois followed him through the terminal. Richard didn't laugh, but his eyes sparkled when he glanced at her. The wall she'd put between herself and her travel partner melted a little at the sparkle. She even laughed when he complained about never having to wait in line to get on a plane when he was the pilot.


	11. Chapter 11: January 2003

Lois pushed the handle down so that the red 'in use' tab displayed in the slot of the door to the tiny airplane bathroom. Her pulse was racing. She'd never had any problems with flying before. Never once. Not in airplanes big or small, nor in helicopters, nor Superman's own arms.

She didn't feel sick, though. She felt… euphoric. Something deep down in her gut was _reveling_ in the flight. Being airborne, albeit suspended within a hulking mass of metal and propulsion engines, had never felt so right.

It was making her nervous. The nerves made her antsy, but there was no room to pace, not in the bathroom let alone the plane.

"Deposit sanitary products here!" the cheerful blue and black sign above the trashcan read, trying to keep women from stuffing their 'sanitary products' down the plane's toilet. Lois smirked at the thought, but then she kept thinking.

When was the last time she'd used her own sanitary products? She'd been carting a box of tampons around for long enough, after all. She and Richard had been in and out of planes and hotels for almost three months with minimal stopover in Metropolis, writing articles about the missing Superman, not finding Clark at any terminal they visited, and picking up random International articles while they were out.

Admittedly, Clark was farther and farther from her mind the more time she spent with Richard. And she _had_ been spending a lot of time with Richard. The sort of time she'd never spent with Clark. Time in bed…

_Then_ Lois began to feel sick.

When they landed, Lois ditched her flight-buddy with a mumble about grabbing something from the gift shop while he saw about the rental—they were spending the night in Chicago before finally returning to Metropolis for good. He raised an eyebrow at her but didn't mention that they'd been to Chicago three times before and she hadn't stopped at any gift shops…

In the bathroom, Lois leaned against the handicapped cubicle's wall, holding the little white stick as though it had been contaminated with _E. bola_ instead of her own urine. Not that the idea of holding something she'd peed on—peed on _on purpose_ at that—made anything any better.

And then there it was. A little plus sign, clear as anything. There was no mistaking it. It didn't even slightly resemble the division sign Lucy had talked about pregnancy tests sometimes displaying in their evil ambiguity. Nor was it the mysterious dot Cat Grant had reportedly gotten on three separate occasions from three different home test brands.

Lois found herself wondering if it was safe to fly when she was pregnant. She'd never thought about it before, never had to. Never in her life, in the long history of sexual escapades that weren't nearly so lascivious as her coworkers tended to imagine based on her drinking abilities, had she ever had a 'pregnancy scare.'

_I need Clark_. She found herself thinking, her best friend's face swimming into her mind's eye for the first time in almost a month. _I want Clark. I need Clark. He would know what to do. He's a freaking encyclopedia of random information like this…!_

Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to snap out of it and wrap the little stick of evil and pee in toilet paper before burying it in her purse. She met Richard near the rental office, shrugged off not finding any good souvenirs, and pretended to nap on the endless ride to the hotel.

Two days later, when they finally separated into their own taxis to go to their own apartments in Metropolis, Lois let herself hyperventilate. She Googled, she debated calling her doctor, and she staved off a full-blown panic attack by taking a long, hot shower.

Now that she knew she was pregnant, she could see it in her body. She wondered if Richard had noticed and had just been waiting for her to say something. It was just the smallest of bumps, but it was definitely a bump. A baby bump. The thought sent a shiver up her spine.

_I'm not cut out to be a mother!_ _Never in my wildest, most psychotic dreams! _Lucy_ was always the maternal one! …_ _Lucy!_

Lois practically ran out of the bathroom to her closet. Her socks didn't match and she was in a musty old sweat suit, but she was decent enough for a late-night visit to her little sister. The cab ride across the island to suburbia didn't do anything to calm her nerves.

"Hi, Lois, when did you get back in town?" Lucy asked as she closed the door behind her sister, trying not to look so surprised as he was to find the other woman on the stoop at quarter to midnight when the rest of the family was asleep. When Lois' deer-in-the-headlights expression was illuminated by the foyer overhead, Lucy changed tacts. "What's wrong?"

"I'm pregnant."


	12. Chapter 12: April 1998

Lois absent-mindedly toweled her hair, her eyes, and her mind, focused on the newsprint that was already almost a week old. It had changed everything. She had known even as she was writing it, probably especially as she was writing it, that it would be the defining piece of her career.

"I Spent the Night with Superman."

Admittedly, it wasn't the title she would have chosen had she been the editor, but it really did catch the eye. Most minds went straight to the gutter, of course. Most of Metropolis, if not the world, was wondering everything about the extraterrestrial she had dubbed 'Superman.' CNN was calling him the 'Man of Steel.'

She didn't really care what they called him. He was her ticket to everything she'd ever dreamed of.

She'd been working at the _Daily Planet_ since she was sixteen, making her way from intern in the copy room to the top City reporter on the beat. She'd thought she'd lost her edge, too. The Chief had even gone so far as to set her up with a writing partner—Clark Kent, the new guy hired straight off the farm.

That interview had turned things around, though. Everything had become clearer. She hadn't lost her edge; the Chief had assigned Kent to her because he needed her, not the other way around. He was a shy guy, hardly cut out for the work of a reporter, and he was a naïve optimist completely out of his depth in Metropolis. He needed somebody looking over his shoulder or he would be eaten alive—and it needed to be somebody who he couldn't drag down with him. She was perfect for the job.

So, she'd taken pity on the poor guy. He'd fainted when they'd been mugged, after all. _Fainted._

She wrote the ground-breaking article on Superman, then managed to secure three more in the following issues. Perry wanted Superman to be synonymous with the _Daily Planet_. Lois would rather it worked slightly differently, but to the same benefit—it would be Lois Lane and Superman, and Lois Lane and the _Daily Planet_, therefore it would also be Superman and the _Daily Planet_.

Then Kent had gotten an interview with Superman. That had chafed. She'd had half a mind to gripe to the Kyrptonian himself about it; luckily, she'd thought better of it before she'd made it to the roof. Besides, it had just been one interview. She had gotten everything after that.

And Kent was actually quite a good writer for all his other flaws. She didn't know how he did it. He'd been as jumpy as a kangaroo when they'd gone out to do interviews together; so jumpy, in fact, that he'd made excuses to leave early on four separate occasions. Yet he always turned in top quality stuff, sometimes contributing interviews with officials she hadn't been able to talk into giving a comment. It was remarkable, but not unbelievable. Kent had gotten her to take pity on him and bring him under her wing, after all. What's not to say his interview subjects hadn't taken pity on him as well? Actually, that was probably fairly close to what happened.

Poor Kent.

Despite all that, Lois was quite pleased with her life overall. Her article was the talk of the town. Her follow-ups were all catching eyes and generating whispers, too—mostly about her and her developing relationship with the superhero. Perry was pleased with her. So pleased that he'd given her the night off and patched Kent up with Gina from Society to cover a fancy dress gala. She'd had her favorite Chinese takeout for dinner, watched a Katherine Hepburn classic, and had a passing conversation—that's right, a _conversation_, not an interview; he'd stopped by of his own free will for an idle chat between rescues—with Superman. Then she'd had a bubble bath and a glass of wine.

Life could really not get better—not even if Kent decided to go back to his comfort zone in Kansas, Perry gave her a raise, and Superman showed up in a tuxedo and asked her out on a date.

Actually, she'd gladly take those last two, but Kent could stay. He was good entertainment, and he kept a spare dictionary in his brain for her.

Lois had just settled on the couch beneath the comforter off her bed, hair still damp, CNN was reporting on all the drops in crime statistics around the world since the "Man of Steel's" arrival (and she was being mentioned quite a lot), and she was pleasantly drowsy when somebody knocked timidly on her door. She just _knew_ it was Kent.

"He probably wants to give me his notes on the fancy dress gala crap," she muttered to herself. "Just to make sure he wrote them out right for Gina."

She made him knock twice more before getting off the couch and straightening herself. She was in her old flannel pajamas, buttoned all the way up, and wearing a fluffy, if worn, bathrobe. He would probably still blush crimson.

She smirked.

"Kent, hi," she said upon opening the door, ignoring the predicted blush and stamping down on her urge to continue smirking at him. "What brings you by tonight?"

"Well, a-actually, Miss Lane, I was just—that is—I was going to—" He stammered, but Lois waved the words aside and let him in, unable to help but notice he was wearing a tuxedo that almost actually fit him.

_Well who'd'a thought? Farmboy cleans up pretty nice._


	13. Chapter 13: July 2003

General Lane stood in the doorway watching his eldest daughter, the one he never expected to have to let go of, to marry off, let alone have any children, hold her newborn. Any doubts of her mothering abilities had gone out the hypothetical window the moment little Jason Joseph had first settled in her arms.

Jason was fragile, small and almost a month early. He always seemed to breathe easier when his mother held him, though.

At a few days old, Jason had yet to be cleared to leave the hospital. Lois had fretted and slept fitfully by his side, never far away. They had brought a cot in so that she could sleep by his incubator. The rest of the family was never far off either, nor was Jimmy Olson from the Daily Planet—the kid was always taking pictures. Perry and his nephew were always close as well, though Richard was terrified of the General and tended to run off to get Lois something to drink when he entered the room.

The General was the only one of them left, though—Lucy had shoved them all into cabs (or, in Jimmy's case, onto his bike) and insisted they go home and sleep.

Lucy had never been able to stand up to him when he set his mind to something—and he was dead-set on not leaving Lois, even though she had been sound asleep when the rest had left.

An hour later he'd gone to get a coffee, coming back to find Lois cross-legged on the end of her cot with Jason sleeping in her arms. She was crying—hard. Streams of tears trailed down her cheeks, shoulders moving with the heavy sobs. Her eyes weren't sad, though; they were fixed on Jason, entranced with him.

Sam didn't think they were happy tears, though.

Sam moved to go comfort her for whatever she was crying about, because he certainly couldn't imagine why she was in the first place. A small hand on his shoulder stopped him. Lucy gave him a serious look and led him around the corner, leaving Lois's door closed.

"What…?" the General began to ask, but Lucy cut him off.

"Daddy," she started slowly, as though explaining something very serious to one of her little daughters; "you know Lois doesn't like anybody to see her cry. It's like her aversion to pet names. She doesn't like any suggestion of vulnerability."

"She is the least vulnerable person I've ever met," the General said stoutly. He could easily recall a few arguments from Lois's teenage years in which she had made him feel vulnerable, but it had never gone the other way.

His youngest gave him a sharp look and made him get some coffee with her to give Lois a moment. They returned a few minutes later to find a remarkably composed Lois putting Jason back in his cradle.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asked, making his way into the room. Lucy settled in the guest chair with her knitting, ignoring them.

"Don't you think I'm a bit old for pet names, Dad?" She smirked, but her eyes weren't in it.

"Sorry, _Lois_," he corrected with a deep, slightly mocking, voice.

"And I'm fine," she responded after a moment spent weighing her arguments. "Just worried about Jason."

General Lane heard it again years and years later, when he walked into the bullpen to surprise his daughter, future son-in-law, and grandson, and take them out for lunch.

"…and I just can't believe they'd pull this on us!" Lois raved, hands going mad. That goofy Kent guy stood calmly next to her and waited the rant out.

"Sweetheart," Kent finally cut in, and, surprisingly, Lois fell silent at once and waited to hear what he'd say. "It's fine. Now you get to write an expose."

Lois frowned, but didn't blow up again.

"Hey, honey—" Richard's voice came from one side and suddenly Lois was directing a death-glare at her fiancé. "Sorry, pet-name thing… So, _Lois_—"

The General didn't hear whatever topic Richard introduced next, as he was too busy wondering how Clark Kent had managed to slip through her well-enforced net.

It dawned on him later that maybe Kent was the reason for it. That only letting _him_ use a pet name made Kent special, and let people who noticed it know just how special he was to her. The thought made the General itchy.


End file.
